


Spoon of Doom

by embalmer56, princessladybug



Series: The Adventures of Baby Sherlock and Daddy Watson. [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bratting, Diapers, Dummies, John's Jumpers, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Sherlock is a manipulative lil shit, Spanking, wooden spoon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:38:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3340499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embalmer56/pseuds/embalmer56, https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessladybug/pseuds/princessladybug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock spends the afternoon with Grammy. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Happy One Year Anniversary Babylock Verse!!!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoon of Doom

**Author's Note:**

> Dubiously beta'd  
> Even more dubiously britpic'd
> 
> If you see any truly heinous errors please let us know. 
> 
>    
> Embie is going to be taking Babylock prompts on her Tumblr (http://squeakpigsrevenge.tumblr.com) to celebrate Babylock's one year anniversary. 
> 
> Thank you to our readers for your kind words and patience! <3<3<3

"Harry doesn't like me."

"She just doesn't know you, sweetheart." John said idly, scratching his vest covered chest. 

"She thinks I'm going to ruin your life."

John hummed noncommittally. "Which shirt?"

"The plaid." Sherlock huffed a sigh. "She's probably not wrong."

"She's never been more wrong." John said buttoning his plaid shirt. 

"Except for thinking gin makes a good breakfast."

John set a glare on him, causing him to fidget.

"Not good?"

"Very."

"Sorry...the maroon cardigan goes very well with that shirt."

John nodded, accepting the peace offering.

"Why must I stay with Mrs. Hudson?"

"Cause you've elected to be little today and you can't stay by yourself when you're this small."

"You leave me by myself to go to the shops when I'm small."

John fixed him with a look. "I don't leave you on your own when you're in nappies."

Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably, the unmistakable crinkle making him blush. 

"You can age up and stay by yourself if you prefer." John said absently, taking care to button his cardigan.

"I'd prefer to go with you."

"You wouldn't enjoy it. And I wouldn't be able to mind you so you would likely get into trouble."

"Is that why I can't come with you?"

"You can't come along because they only allow blood relatives."

"But I'm the boyfriend of a blood relative."

"Boyfriend?"

Sherlock picked at the duvet. "Is that not right?"

"It's exactly right. I've just never heard you say it is all."

"Daddy is Sherlock's boyfriend." Sherlock crowed with a cheeky grin.

"Oh. That sounds bloody awful.” John grumbled, pulling a face. “Do they still have laws on book about deviants?"

"Don't know."

"John and Sherlock are boyfriends"

"Yes. So I should be allowed to come!"

"Sherlock, you are not coming with me to visit Harry at the treatment center! Your deductions would put everyone there back on the sauce."

"You only wanna go by yourself so you can collect pamphlets for the next time I relapse. Mycroft has a whole drawer of them." Sherlock is too busy pouting to see the horror on John's face.

"You plan to relapse?"

"Course not! Nobody plans to relapse." Sherlock huffed. 

"I'm telling you now; I'm not going to handle that well."

"If it happens."

John hummed, checking his pockets for his wallet and keys. "Come on." John said, turning out the door and trotting down the stairs.

"Alright then?" He asked Mrs. Hudson, as he shucked on his jacket.

"Perfectly, dear." She said from her place in his chair. 

"Sherlock, come give us a smooch before I go."

Sherlock stood several steps up the staircase looking miserable.

"I wanna go too."

"Co'mere, little man." John opened his arms and soon found them full of whinging little detective. He gave his boy a squeeze and dropped a kiss on his nose. "You are going to be a very good boy for Mrs. Hudson, aren't you, Pet?"

"I'll try." Sherlock pouted, burying his nose in John's neck. 

John hummed, "That's all I ask." John kissed his temple and then worked to untangle himself from long limbs. Finally managing to free himself, he patted Sherlock’s padded bum. "I should be home before bedtime."

Sherlock stood on the landing, watching mournfully as John disappeared down the stairs. The tears that he'd barely been containing began to roll unbidden down his cheeks as he heard the front door click shut. He could feel himself moving forward, ready to bolt after Daddy when a gentle singsong voice called to him from the sitting room. 

"Sherlock, come to Grammy, little love." He stood still at the top of the steps for a moment before turning into the sitting room. His feet dragging as he crossed the sitting room to Mrs. Hudson. She's sitting in Daddy's chair. An irrational spike of irritation burns in his chest about this before he collapses on the floor at her feet, burying his face in her lap. 

"Poor little lamb." She cooed, her fingers carding through his hair. "Daddy will be back before you know it. And in the meantime, you and I can have a wonderful time." 

He sniffled pitifully before nodding, surreptitiously wiping his eyes on her apron. 

"Why don't you collect some of your toys and come downstairs. You can have a play while I fix lunch."

"Can't we stay up here?"

"I'm sorry, love, I'd need to scrub your kitchen before I'd be willing to cook in it. And I'm still not your housekeeper."

He scooted over as Grammy got out of Daddy’s chair. He watched her collect his things from the kitchen, a bit dejected.

"Come along, Sherlock, your toys," She gently nudged him.

With a beautiful pout he began to collect his favorite toys from the toy basket, putting them in a shopping bag Grammy had found. Mrs. Hudson added his cup, some nappies, and a dummy to the bag before handing it to Sherlock to carry. “You are such a good helper.” Despite his sads, Sherlock preened under the praise. He was a good helper. 

"Alright, little man, let's head downstairs." 

Sherlock was just about to take her hand when he suddenly dropped the bag in a panic.

"Jumper!" Sherlock took off through the kitchen and down the hallway.

"No running in the flat, Sherlock!"

Sherlock ignored her as he skidded into his room, snatching last night’s jumper off of his pillow. It was a hideous affair with a great white deer on it. He pressed the fabric to his face for a moment before slowly turning and heading back to Mrs. Hudson, who’d collected the bag of his belongings from the floor.

"Is that all you need?"

"Markers." 

"Where are they?"

Sherlock tossed the jumper over his shoulder and rummaged in the stacks on the table for his markers. 

"I don't know how either of you find anything in this mess."

"It's not a mess." Sherlock snarked, intentionally dropping a stack of papers onto the floor. "It's a very specific filing system." He shot her a wide grin as he pulled the box of markers from beneath a tea cup, up ending it and sending the last sip skittering across the desk. 

Mrs. Hudson wrinkled her nose at him. "You'll keep your filing system out of my flat young man." 

Sherlock nodded absently as he sorted his markers into the appropriate order. Magenta and chartreuse always touched. A hand on his arm guided him out of the flat and down the stairs. 

"What shall we have for lunch?"

Sherlock thought about this very intently as Mrs. Hudson opened the door and allowed him in.  
He dumped his jumper and box of markers on the floor next to the couch. "Dunno...chips?"

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes at the mess on the floor and the demand for chips. "In my flat we eat more than chips, Sherlock Holmes," She scolded, putting the bag on a chair at the kitchen table. 

"But chips are the best!" Sherlock objected. "Daddy would let me have chips." 

"Your Daddy is a doctor. He knows that little boys need to eat more than just chips."

Sherlock grunted as he flopped onto the sofa. It was cushier than the one upstairs. He imagined it swallowing him whole like a sea monster. 

"But I'm distressed ‘cause he abandoned me. Chips’ll make me feel better."

"What's that, love?" Asked Mrs. Hudson, bustling in the kitchen. "How about a sandwich and some soup for lunch? I have tomato bisque." She didn't get to see the brilliant way Sherlock's face contorted in disgust.

"I don't want a bisque. I don't even know what that is," he grumbled, throwing his arm over his face. He stayed that way for a few moments before huffing and sitting up. It wasn't fun to pout if no one was paying attention.

"It's a soup with lots of cream, it’s delicious," Mrs. Hudson replied still without acknowledging his pout or fuss. She pulled the pot from the fridge and started to warm it up. 

"Would you like a toasted cheese sammie?" Mrs. Hudson leaned past the door frame to eye the sulking detective. She sighed loudly and put down her block of cheese. 

"Sweet boy," She cooed gently as she sat beside him on the sofa. "Your Daddy did not abandon you. You know better. I fancy that the good doctor is missing you just as much as you miss him right about now."

If Daddy missed him, why did he leave him behind? Sherlock frowned. It was too big a thing to think about right now.

"I don't want...whatever that thing you said is." He sighed dramatically. 

"You may like it." Mrs. Hudson said, patting his arm. 

"Tedious."

"Chicken noodle then?"

Sherlock perked slightly. "With peanut butter on toast!"

It was Mrs. Hudson's turn to grimace.

"Whatever you like. Come sit at the table and keep me company."

Sherlock huffed but allowed himself to be pulled up off the sofa.

"You can run the toaster for me?"

"Daddy won't let me use the toaster after I put his phone in the one upstairs. I tried to explain that I was just drying off the tea but he was still mad."

"Well I would be a bit agitated too, so you must forgive your poor Daddy," she said as she tucked the bread into the toaster. She pressed the lever and turned back to Sherlock.

"Get your cup for me," she instructed. Sherlock rifled through the grocery sack, dropping action figures and spare nappies onto the floor before holding up his sippy triumphantly. 

"I have water, tea, prune juice, milk... what will it be?" Mrs. Hudson asked, studiously ignoring the mess on her impeccable kitchen floor. 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Tea with extra milk, of course."

Mrs. Hudson smiled fondly at him as she took the cup. "I bet you can help me put the kettle on, can't you?" 

"Not allowed after the last time I cooked toes in our kettle..."

"Goodness! I think your Daddy needs to go up for a knighthood." Mrs. Hudson mumbled, flipping on the kettle. 

Sherlock hummed his agreement as he upturned a tiny porcelain frog and poured a small mountain of salt onto the table. "Maybe My can do that."

"Stop that." Mrs. Hudson scolded, taking the salt shaker from him and gently smacking the back of his hand. "Get the toast, dear. Carefully. It's going to be hot."

Sherlock glared mutinously at her, rubbing the back of his hand as if she had just cut it wide open.

"You hit me!"

"The toast, dear," Mrs. Hudson chose to ignore his outburst; again.

Sherlock, frustrated with his Grammy's lack of attention, stomped over to the toaster and flung the toast onto a plate.

"Less attitude perhaps?"

Sherlock had just devised a brilliant retort when Grammy’s apron began to make the most heinous chiming. 

“Oh, oh!” Mrs. Hudson chirped pulling a brick of a cell phone out of her pocket. She squinted at the screen. “It’s Mrs. Turner! She went with her married ones to Singapore to adopt their baby!” Mrs. Hudson crowed, moving out of the kitchen. “Won’t be but a mo!” Mrs. Hudson tutted over her shoulder as she stepped into her bedroom, mostly shutting the door behind her. 

“That phone would survive the toaster.” Sherlock called after her. When no reply came he spent a minute glaring at the table. Now that lunch had started to be prepared, he was hungry. And Grammy clearly didn’t love him enough to feed him, too engrossed in conversation about a real baby. 

“I’m having chips.” He muttered to himself. 

He padded quietly into the sitting room, flicking on the TV. The noise would make Grammy believe he’d gotten bored and went to watch telly. Peppa Pig was on and it took a great force of will to not plop down in front of the set. Sherlock slipped out the front door of Grammy's flat and up the stairs to the landing. He tugged on his coat and scarf. The heavy material would hide his crinkly bum easily. 

He tried to stuff a foot into one of Daddy’s boots, growling when it didn’t fit. Nothing was right today. Kicking Daddy’s boots aside, he slipped his feet into his trainers before moving silently down the steps. 

He paused at the front door, tipping his head to listen, Mrs. Hudson was still chattering away.  
He’d be gone and back with chips before she even knew he was gone. “What’s the worst that could happen?” He grumbled to himself as he slipped out the front door.


End file.
